


Han's Friend (?) Lando Calrissian

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: AU: The One Where Everybody (?) Lives [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back
Genre: Canon twisted into a knot and boiled like a bagel, Han is tired of Luke hogging the narrative spotlight, Lando Calrissian is just all kinds of awesome, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han's not jealous. And he's not helping out because he (kind of) slept with Luke once either, nevermind what Chewie says, thank the gods for his inability to speak Basic and the peanut gallery’s unfamiliarity with Shyriiwook. Han just happens to know a guy, is all, and Luke’s aunt and uncle seem like good folks, nothing like the usual riff-raff Han's used to dealing with on Tatooine, so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Han's Friend (?) Lando Calrissian

**Author's Note:**

> Follows chapter 8 of [The One Where Everybody (?) Lives](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6570733/chapters/15034456).

** The One Where Everyone (?) Lives **

_Han’s Friend (?) Lando Calrissian_

_(A side-story)_

Okay, so you slept with Luke once. Kind of. Probably counted as sex for him -- he _said_ it was the first time he’d sucked a man’s cock, and he maybe wasn’t lying about it, for all that his technique makes you wonder if he was just saying that to get a rise out of you. And yeah, you kinda like the guy, kinda like him a _lot._ Hard not to, with his fluffy blonde hair and bright blue eyes and the way he jumps into everything he does with both feet, sometimes literally, so earnest and honest about everything it’s almost exhausting to be around him for long stretches at a time. And sure, you’re maybe kind of not happy that he’s going off to become some mystic warrior priest or whatever, going off with Princess Attitude, whom he seems to worship like she’s a goddess or something. Which hey, she’s pretty -- Alderaani girls usually are, and she’s Alderaani _royalty,_ so she’d better be easy on the eyes -- but that's not what Luke seems to see, the way he stares at her like she’s the most amazing creation in the galaxy, just --

Doesn’t matter, you’re not jealous. And you’re not helping out because you (kind of) slept with the guy once either, nevermind what Chewie says, thank the gods for his inability to speak Basic and the peanut gallery’s unfamiliarity with Shyriiwook. You just happen to know a guy, is all, and Luke’s aunt and uncle seem like good folks, nothing like the usual riff-raff you’re used to dealing with on Tatooine, so.

Plus, the _Falcon’s_ motivator’s threatening to die on you. _Again._ Might as well get it looked at by someone you trust.

Chewie gives you the wookiee equivalent of a dubious look and calls you a lovelorn cub when you spell all of that out for him. You remind him that his head would make a fantastic decoration for the galley. He offers to rearrange your limbs to make you a work of modern art, and you drop it because wookiees tend to like to have the last word, even in a casual argument.

He’s still laughing at you when you cross into Bespin’s sensor territory, Lando’s security force as quick as ever to fly right up next to you and start issuing threats, ridiculous from ships as underpowered as theirs are, which is what you’d be willing to bet substantial credits is an intentional slight from their boss, Lando as (justifiably) paranoid as ever. Their threats get you a cockpit full of worried old folks, though, Luke’s uncle and not-grandpa making useless suggestions as you negotiate with the lead security ship, its pilot flying well within range of your laser cannons, an oversight you’d be happy to exploit to the detriment of the pilot’s continued employment or existence, depending on how you choose to exploit it. You’re granted clearance before the temptation becomes too great for you to resist to demonstrate the _Falcon’s_ fire-power, and you’re weirdly reminded of Luke when his aunt touches you on the shoulder and says _thank you_ as you kill the main engines and coast cleanly into the port opened for you, her eyes kind and expression sincere when you look up to see if she’s kidding, because _seriously,_ that kind of sincerity is usually offered with a lethal dose of sarcasm. The fact that it doesn't when it's her, when it's Luke, makes your chest feel funny, gives you the sneaking suspicion that their brand of sincerity must run in their family or something.

“Doesn’t seem like the kind of welcome one gets from a _friend,”_ her husband grumbles as you lead them down the gangplank, his voice just loud enough for you to overhear him, and Beru tells him to _hush_ in a tone sharp enough that you don’t feel the need to turn around and tell the old man where he can stick his opinions about your friends.

Of _course,_ Lando makes it worse by showing up with his full battalion of yes-men and that creepy cyborg assistant of his, all bluster and antagonism and making vague generalizations about old shit you _know_ he doesn’t care about anymore just because he’s got an audience and gets his jollies making you miserable. He hugs you like he’s missed you, though, which means you’ll be able to exploit his tendency to be a sentimental jackass later, so you hug him back and leave your blaster where it is and don’t bruise your knuckles reacquainting them with Lando’s smug fucking _face._

“Hey, Chewbacca,” he calls out, keeping his hand on your belly as he does because he’s always been a touchy sonuvabitch, “you still hangin’ around with this loser?”

Chewie, at least, has the decency to insist that he wouldn’t fly with anyone else in the galaxy, which is why he’s your favorite and will always _be_ your favorite and you’ll never actually make good on any of the (many) threats you’ve leveled at him over the years. He _also_ has the decency to growl threateningly when Lando saunters over and starts putting the charm on Luke’s _aunt_ of all people, just because she’s a woman and he’s a creep, though the look on Luke’s uncle’s face as he puts a proprietary arm around his wife is so hilarious that you wish with your entire _being_ that you had a holo of it to show Luke later.

You take pity on the man when Lando doesn’t relent by dragging Lando away, mostly because Bespin’s just as unpleasant as ever outside the controlled atmosphere inside the main administrative compound and residence quarter, and where the thin air is breathable it’s starting to make your head hurt. He lets you pull him away and laughs about it, even, slinging his arm around your waist as he walks with you, nattering on and on about business and regulations and shit you’d never have guessed he’d know about, let alone _care_ about, back when he was still a smuggler and offered you enough distraction that you didn’t care about him being competition. He’s got a good arrangement in mind for Luke’s aunt and uncle, though, which he spells out for them once he’s led them into his office and presented them with an overview of his operation detailed enough that you’re tempted to lie down in the floor and go to sleep, then offering them contracts that spell out terms and conditions and wages and benefits and accommodations and all kinds of bureaucratic bullshit that makes your mouth ache for a drink and seems to put the others at ease, Old Ben nodding in approval as he reads over Beru’s shoulder, Owen asking a few questions before shrugging and signing his name on the last page.

“We appreciate it,” he says, handing the contract datapad back to Lando.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Lando says. “Anything to put Han in my debt is a good thing for me.”

He winks at you as he says it. Beru turns and looks at you in alarm, again so similar to Luke that it makes your skin crawl.

“He ain’t serious,” you tell her before she can ask. “‘Sides, he owes me so much, _he’ll_ never be outta _my_ debt. And he knows it.”

Lando makes a rude gesture and takes the datapad from Beru, grinning all the while. “You’ll be in better company here than you were with this one,” he tells her. “Lobot’ll show you to your new quarters, get you situated. You need anything, let him know, he’ll be able to reach me.”

He shakes their hands and walks them to the door, seeing Ben out along with them with a polite little wave. A good act, almost enough for you to be surprised when he closes the door and turns back to you and gets his hands on your ass and his tongue in your mouth, rough and rude and demanding like he was back when you were younger and thought everything was a competition. It feels damned good, too, gets your heart beating faster and your cock swelling fast in your pants, your breath coming short in the low oxygen, making you dizzy.

“Thought they were lying to me when they said Captain Solo of the _Millennium Falcon_ was requesting permission to land in my city,” he says when you have to pull away to catch your breath. “Last I heard, you’d gotten shot on some planet in the Outer Rim. Thought you were gone.”

“Yeah, I heard that rumor too,” you tell him. “Greedo the Hunter, got me in Mos Eisley on Tatooine, wasn’t it?”

Lando nods. “That’s the one.”

“Funny story about that,” you say. “I’ll tell you later. For now, you got anything to drink? Your city’s makin’ me thirsty.”

He grins and gives your ass a squeeze before letting go, the ridiculous cape he’s wearing swishing against his thighs as he walks around to the far side of his desk, producing a bottle of something dark green from one of the drawers and two shot-glasses. “Abrixinian whiskey,” he announces, pouring two shots. “Absolutely illegal across three quarters of the galaxy, hard as hell to come by, and worth every second of trouble to procure.” He holds one of the glasses out to you. “I only bring it out for the best.”

You take the glass and clink it against his, then throw the shot back, letting the liquor wash fully over your tongue as you do. It’s smooth as glass, rich and vibrant and sharp, the aftertaste almost like the smell of Lixim trees on Corellia, like new leaves unfurling after a spring rain. Like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, the alcohol going to your head so fast that you’re tempted to pull Lando into your arms and kiss him good and slow and dirty in thanks for sharing his precious bootleg liquor with you. Which is exactly what you do after Lando’s poured you a second shot, his mouth sloppy and rich with the lingering aftertaste of the drink as he kisses you back, murmuring drunken laughter against your lips.

“What?” you say, cupping his cheek and biting at his chin.

“Nothin’,” he says.

“Uh- _huh.”_

“Mmmyup.”

He’s lying, _obviously_ lying, and he probably thinks you’re going to ask again, so you don’t ask, you drag him over to one of the overly luxurious sofas in the center of his overly enormous office and strip him as nude as you need him to be for you to get in his lap and fuck yourself on his overly thick cock, the alcohol and the thin air and the things you didn’t get to do with Luke before he left for his little swampy planet all coming together to make your reunion fuck shorter than you’d’ve liked it to be, Lando digging his nails into your thighs as you clamp down around his magnificent cock and stripe his chest with your semen, his eyes squeezed tight shut as he fucks you hard through the aftershocks of your orgasm, and the sound he makes as he hits his peak is enough to make your cock jerk, your body clenching reflexively around his erection as he cries out and trembles under you, breathing your name like a prayer.

“Ahh, why I ever let you leave is a mystery,” he sighs, letting his head back against the cushion of the sofa as if holding it up is more than he can be bothered to do. “Ass as good as yours should be illegal, Solo, I swear it on the gods of my ancestors.”

He’s a bastard without any genealogy worth acknowledgement, but you leave that insult for another time. “Lobot ain’t doin’ it for you anymore?” you say instead, steadfastly refusing to wince as you push yourself up and off of Lando’s cock, the sting of it as unpleasant as ever.

Lando snorts. “You know it’s not like that with him.”

“Right.”

“I’d be more likely to fuck Chewbacca.”

You offer Lando your sweetest smile. “I’ll let him know you’re interested.”

He laughs at you for that, so you leave him to laugh in the mess you made of him as you slip into his private ‘fresher to clean yourself up, the scrub of the sonic shower as disappointing as ever after the number of good hot water-showers you got to enjoy on Yavin IV. Makes you think about Luke, too, which isn’t a good thing, as drunk as you are, gets you talking when you come back and find Lando mostly dressed and sprawled comfortably on the other sofa, a glass of Bivalli wine in one hand, a glass of wine waiting for you on the end-table.

“Sounds like a real piece’a work,” Lando says, when you realize you’re running your mouth and shut yourself the hell up. “Must be, to’ve gotten you so smitten with him.”

“It ain’t like that,” you tell him.

“Uh- _huh.”_

“No really, it’s not.”

“Right. Which is why you brought the in-laws by to settle in with me,” Lando says.

Which isn’t nearly as wrong as you’d like to tell him it is, a fact you’d peel your own face off before acknowledging, so you set your glass aside and threaten Lando’s physical well-being and put your mouth on his until he’s too busy kissing you back for you to talk about Luke anymore, his lips swollen and tunic wrinkled by the time you’ve lost interest in kissing, stretching out on his ridiculous sofa to finish your wine instead.

“I’ll take good care of ‘em for you,” he says, swirling what’s left of the wine in his own glass, his tone soft and serious. “They seem like good folks. Honest. Not something you see too often, these days.”

You think of Luke, of his tendency to say whatever he’s thinking, too honest and blunt for his own damn good most of the time. Of his honest, open wonder as he showered with you the first time, his earnest, terrified insistence that he could defeat the _Death Star_ with little more than an X-wing and a second-hand astromech. His open admission that he was cold, lying in your bunk, his perfect body curled close to you for warmth. The hurt plain and unhidden in his expression as he said goodbye, walking away from you on Dagobah.

“Yeah,” you say, swallowing down the impulse to say _just wait’ll you meet Luke,_ because there are certain things Lando already knows and will never, ever let you live down, and you don’t need to be giving him any more ammunition of that variety. “Thanks.”

Lando dips his head in a nod. “Any time,” he says. “Happy to do it for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I guess Han got sick of Luke being our primary POV in this universe, because this story came outta _nowhere_ and wrote itself while I sat there and grinned like the moron I tend to be more often than not. Poor old Luke will never know this went down, and don’t anybody tell him, either. Break his sweet little heart right in half, it would.


End file.
